The thought had been creeping and stewing mind for months, wrapping around my subconscious until it blossomed into a full-blown, undeniable fantasy. And now, finally, it was about to come true. Was I ready for it?
Chris and I had been together for three years, since right after college. I loved him, loved every inch of his swimmer’s build—the lean muscles carved by endless laps in the pool, the broad shoulders that tapered into a narrow waist, the way his skin seemed to glow under even the dimmest light. I loved how his blonde hair caught the sun, turning it into a golden halo, and how his blue eyes could shift from calm pools to stormy depths in an instant. But it wasn’t just Chris’s body that consumed me; it was the way he moved, the way he laughed, the way he fit into my life like a missing puzzle piece.
Chris was everything—strong, confident, beautiful—and yet he was mine. And in those moments, when I was fucking him, when I was in control, there was nothing else in the world that mattered. I loved topping Chris—loved the way his body responded to mine, the tight heat of him as I pushed inside, the way his breathing hitched and then came in shallow gasps. I loved the power of feeling him beneath me, so masculine and strong, yet yielding completely to my control. I loved the way his muscles tensed and then relaxed as I took him, the way his blue eyes darkened with pleasure, the way he would groan my name in that low, desperate voice that made my blood run hot.
Yet, despite all my love for Chris, a primal desire had taken root in my mind. The image of someone else fucking Chris, of watching another man take him with a raw, unrelenting dominance, set a fire in my gut that I couldn’t extinguish. It wasn’t about replacing myself—I didn’t want to lose Chris. No, it was about the power of the act, the surrender, the vulnerability. I wanted to see Chris unraveled by someone else’s hands, to witness his composure shatter under the weight of another man’s control. The idea was intoxicating, consuming, and no matter how much I tried to push it away, it only grew stronger.
I finally confessed it to him one night, unsure of how Chris would react. We were lying in bed, the yellow glow of the lamp casting soft shadows across the room, and my heart pounded like a drum in my chest. My stomach was twisting in knots. Chris was propped up on one elbow, his eyes calm but curious, like he already sensed something heavy was coming.
The words tumbled out before I could stop them, my voice trembling with a mix of emotions. “Chris, I… I’ve been thinking about something. Something I can’t get out of my head.” I swallowed hard, my throat dry as dust.
He turned to me, his blue eyes steady, but there was a flicker of curiosity in them. “Go on, Jason” he said softly, his voice calm, almost inviting.
I took a deep breath, my heart pounding so loud I was sure he could hear it. “I’ve been fantasizing about… about seeing you with someone else.” The admission hung in the air like a storm cloud, heavy and suffocating. “I don’t know why, but the thought of watching you surrender to another guy — it drives me crazy. I can’t stop thinking about it.”
I braced myself for the worst—for anger, for confusion, for him to pull away. But instead, Chris just looked at me, his expression unreadable. For a moment, the silence stretched between us. Then, slowly, a small smile crept across his lips, and he leaned closer, his voice low and steady. “Okay.” The simplicity of it stole the air from my lungs. It wasn’t a hesitant acceptance or a reluctant agreement—it was calm, certain, almost amused.
My mind was a whirlwind of emotions—relief, disbelief, and a strange, electric anticipation that I couldn’t shake. All I could do was stare back at him, waiting for him to say more, to give me some kind of clue about what he was thinking.
But he didn’t. Instead, he leaned in, his lips brushing against mine in a soft, lingering kiss that sent a shiver down my spine. When he pulled back, that same enigmatic smile was still playing on his lips, and I knew, without a doubt, that everything was about to change.
“But I get to choose who,” Chris added, his tone light but firm, as if this were just another conversation about what to have for dinner. I blinked, caught off guard by how effortlessly he had taken control of the moment. I’d expected resistance, not this quiet confidence. Chris reached out, his fingers brushing against my cheek in a gesture that was both tender and possessive. “If we’re doing this, Jason, it’s going to be on my terms.”
“Okay,” I said finally, my voice barely above a whisper. The word felt heavy, loaded with all the things I couldn’t yet put into words. Chris smiled then, a small, enigmatic curve of his lips that sent a shiver down my spine.
“Whoever you want,” I said, my voice low and hoarse. My imagination immediately conjured a list of possibilities—friends, acquaintances, strangers—all neatly filed into categories of safety and appeal. I trusted Chris implicitly, but I couldn’t shake the nervous flutter in my chest. I wanted someone who could dominate without cruelty, someone who would respect the boundaries of this experiment.
Chris leaned back, his smile turning sly, almost teasing. “Good,” he said, drawing out the word in a way that sent a shiver down my spine. His eyes glinted with something knowing and mischievous, and I felt a strange mix of relief and unease ripple through me. He already knows who he wants, I realized, my stomach tightening as I stared at him. His tone was light but deliberate, like he’d been planning this all along.
Who could it be? A friend? Someone from the gym? A stranger? None of them felt quite right, but none prepared me for the name that would soon drop like a bombshell into the silence of our room.
"Well," I asked, "who it is?"
I never, in a million years, expected the name that came out of his mouth.
“Max.”
The name hit me like a physical blow, knocking the air from my lungs and sending my mind reeling. Max. Just the sound of it was enough to make my chest tighten, my fists instinctively clench, and my stomach churn with a cocktail of emotions I couldn’t quite untangle. Max was the towering jock from our rival rugby team. He was big. He was hot. And our history was… complicated. We are competitors, rivals, and not at all friendly rivals.
Last season, during a particularly brutal match, Max had tackled me with such ferocity that he’d dislocated my shoulder. The pain had been bad, but worse than that had been the look on Max’s face afterward—smirking, and amused.
And now, Chris wanted him. I could feel the tension coiling in my chest, a mix of dread and something else—something hotter, darker, that I didn’t want to name. It wasn’t just jealousy or anger; it was anticipation, a twisted thrill at the idea of seeing Max take what was supposed to be mine.The idea shouldn’t have been appealing. It should have filled me with rage, with jealousy, with a desperate need to protect what was mine. But instead, it sent a jolt of raw, uncontrollable desire coursing through me. I couldn’t deny the thrill that coursed through me at the thought.
This was happening. Max was going to be the one to take Chris, and I was going to watch. The realization hit me hard, leaving me breathless and turned on all at once.
More to come . .
